


Contingencies

by bluebells



Series: This is how he looks after you [5]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: AU where they were reunited with Paz before S2, Aftercare, Comfort, Din Djarin has two hands, Dirty Talk, Emotional Drops, Held and Bound, Inhuman Paz, Intersex Din, M/M, Mild Angst, Multi, Negotiations, Paz's B- Parenting Skills (It's no worse than Din's), Post-Episode: s02e01 The Marshal, Post-mission rituals, Prostate Milking, Threesome - M/M/M, Vers Din, Yearning, polycule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27349927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: “What if I’m not always here?” Paz coaxes, a warm murmur in his audial.Din looks at him sharply, offended at the suggestion.Paz’s chest trembles with gentle mirth. “Would it not be wise if someone else knew how to take care of you?”
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth, Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla, Paz Vizsla/Cobb Vanth, Paz Vizsla/Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Series: This is how he looks after you [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997341
Comments: 64
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Shy_One](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shy_One/gifts), [HippoHope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippoHope/gifts).



> If you’ve come here for plot and plausibility, get out of my house.
> 
> I actually wrote this because 1) there's been silly backlash against Din/Cobb and spite is a powerful force second only to gravity, and 2) I saw a few Din/Paz shippers sweating at the prospect of Din/Cobb. Remember, every ship is valid, celebrate everything, leave what doesn't serve you behind; take no shit but leave no scars.
> 
> Then [the shy one](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shy_One) said "Paz/Din/Cobb??" and my head hit the desk at the inevitable.

Din is accustomed to ending missions on his back with one Paz Vizsla pounding the breath from his lungs. It’s something they established within the covert on Nevarro _(“you need to relax more, Din”)._ Paz was always so thorough, it was a comfort to resume something familiar when they found him after the tribe’s fall and dispersion to the stars.

They don’t usually have an audience.

As Peli and her service droids lead the child away in excited chatter, Din’s stomach flips at the large hand curling around his waist.

“What if I’m not always here?” Paz coaxes, a warm murmur in his audial.

Din looks at him sharply, offended at the suggestion.

Paz’s chest trembles with gentle mirth. “Would it not be wise if someone else knew how to take care of you?”

Din’s chest tightens at the choice of words that belie the rough and hurried ritual they usually share. His weight rocks back on his heels for a better look at Paz’s visor to help him understand why the man would even pose such a suggestion. Didn’t he know how hard it was for Din to trust with this sort of thing? Didn’t he know that Din--

“It’s not my intention to intrude,” the Marshal interrupts, a pointed reminder that he can still hear them from his perch against Peli’s workbench. Cobb fidgets when both Mandalorians turn their visors on him. He and a small contingent had followed them back to Mos Eisley for a supply run after celebrating their survival in the desert, apparently, there were some items no amount of desert resourcefulness could replace.

Din was glad for a few more hours in the company of their new allies, but he had also been looking forward to recovering from the toll of the krayt dragon in peace. Knowing how eagerly Peli would relieve them of the child only built the anticipation.

And then Paz had blind-sided both Din and Cobb with this unexpected invitation. Din should have introduced Paz’s head to the ground.

“My people and I got the supplies we came for, I should head--”

Paz looks back at Din and the smirk is clear in his voice. “He likes you.”

Din scowls, cheeks heating. 

"Hey." Cobb’s hands shoot up in placation. His smile is a little crooked and a lot disarming. When Din first saw that smile, he hated it on sight. Now, he... doesn't. “I’m not here to break up the home of my new friends. If I’d known the two of you--”

“You see, you’re friends,” Paz gestures, slow and intently between them.

‘Friends’ plural, Cobb was referring to both of them. He’s trying to broker peace and Paz is wilfully ignoring him. Din has half a mind to take his vibroblade and cut one of those hands off, the embarrassment is almost overwhelming.

He is not blind nor half as ignorant as others have assumed of him in the past. He saw it in Cobb’s eyes when the man handed him back the beskar’gam, in the way Cobb’s grip lingered a beat longer than necessary when they thought they’d be parting. Cobb’s voice had been warm and teasing, his own invitation earned by a unique challenge shared and overcome.

You don’t just take down a krayt dragon without it binding you.

Still, he shakes his head. Cobb is like Paz: a protector of his people, bound to them and their town. He’s not one who will come to Din’s beckon call if Din just has need of him. Paz is only here with him now because there was nothing (and no one) to go back and protect. Din does not want to bring that curse on another community.

“You jumped in a dragon’s maw for his people,” Paz says.

Din’s gut twists at the memory, suppressing a flinch. “For the beskar.” He had been almost certain he’d survive -- almost -- but not enough, ordering Cobb to look after the child if he failed. His heart drums, shoulders drawing small at the memory of those jaws closing around him, a rancid, crushing dark.

He'd almost lost grip of his pulse rifle. One slip and he would have been separated from the child forever -- from Paz. Paz would have continued the mission. It’s small comfort.

Cobb’s voice brings him back. “Hey. It’s okay to let people thank you.” Ankles crossed, hands in his pockets, he cocks his head with a kind smile. “You did something incredible. And you mediated a peace between us and the Tuskens I never thought I’d see.” He rolls his jaw, glancing away. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Din’s eyes narrow at him, then Paz when one of those gloved hands tries to encircle his waist again. “You want to _thank_ me.”

Cobb’s smile turns impish, eyes bright. “Never let it be said Cobb Vanth is an ungracious man.”

Heart still pounding in his chest, Din sizes up Paz for his excuse. “And you? You want--” He can’t even say it. Paz wants to _share_ him? He didn’t think Paz even held the word at his disposal.

It’s a continued mercy his expression is hidden from all because he can feel the burn from his face all the way down to his chest. But as Cobb and Paz both watch him patiently, he can’t convince himself that heat is only embarassment.

“Of course, you can say ‘no’, Din’ika,” Paz’s voice is barely above a breath, only for the two of them. Strong hands find his waist and Din sucks in a sharp breath as he's drawn in against Paz’s front. “But if you’re curious….”

Paz nuzzles the side of his helm, murmuring assurances that make him squirm at their affection. Over the armoured curve of Paz’s shoulder, Din watches Cobb watching them. The heat in his chest flares through his body and coils low in his gut. 

A slow, knowing smile tugs at Cobb’s mouth.

Din hopes he doesn’t regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not clowning myself by staying up any later for this, but know there are -plans- and if it continues, the next chapter will come with plenty of warnings lol


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz has laid out an offer. Cobb makes a counter-offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is inspired by those Twitter conversations that Cobb wants Din to rail him silly, but Din is so tired his usual preference is for someone to just bend him over and let him have it. Also, please note the updated tags, this is where things get explicit.

Cobb had never met a real Mandalorian before. When not one, but two waltzed into his town -- the big, blue one looming as short and silver growled for Cobb to take off his armour -- he had little notion their journey could end like _this._

He raises an eyebrow as Big Blue beckons him forward with a jerk of his head. Before him, his partner sits on the engineer’s workbench, hands braced behind him, knees spread shyly around Blue's waist. It’s an enlightening prospect contrasting the man who glared Cobb down in Mos Pelgo and flew from the jaws of a krayt dragon.

He’s everything those old folk stories promised but here, in this moment, he’s a simple man… and he’s nervous.

His friend, on the other hand. Cobb considers the taller, broader Mandalorian standing between those spread thighs, one gloved hand roaming and palming that cinched waist in idle motions. They’re murmuring in that musical language just beneath Cobb’s range of hearing, terms he’s never heard before. How many people alive today have heard the Mandalorian’s native tongue? He feels humbled. Big Blue and Mando he’s dubbed them. Sure, they were both Mandalorians but the pure, polished chrome suit was the first he’d seen and made _quite_ the impression. Weren’t too many men who could order Cobb to strip and merit consideration.

Blue murmurs a question, Mando shakes his head with a reply, clearly calling the shots. 

“Should we take this someplace else?” Cobb suggests, gesturing the way their mechanic had taken the child, likely in direction of the Cantina. “She could return soon.”

Blue cocks his head. “You plan on taking your time?”

Mando’s visor snaps to his partner with accusing heat and Cobb, not for the first time, reassesses.

He had detected some earlier tension when the blue one scoffed at his friend’s demands for cooperation around the Tusken campfire. Arms folding, Big Blue had looked everywhere but at his comrade voicing discontent, and kept his thoughts to himself.

They never remove their helmets, but Cobb suspects they’re a little ignorant to the tells of their body language. Do they know how obvious it is when they duck their heads in exasperation or roll the muscles of their neck to work through frustration? How their suits exaggerate every motion? That when they size each other up with unyielding stares, their silence is as deafening as the silver one’s tongue, and there’s no way to pretend dragging each other from the Tusken fire circle to argue was anything but subtle.

But, in the end, Blue conceded to Mando’s orders and held the front line with the townsfolk and Tuskens before the dragon’s cave. It was impressive watching a man so huge wield a blaster cannon almost as large as himself… until the krayt made Cobb and Mando join the fight.

“He has a habit,” Blue had told Cobb as they rode back to Mos Eisley. The child blinked at the desert sailing past from a pouch on the seat between his thighs. “Doesn’t know how to say ‘no’. He agrees to more than he should.”

The big guy had made little secret of his displeasure being recruited to the town’s cause. Maybe he thought it beneath him. Cobb has a feeling-- if things had been up to Blue? Cobb would have been shot and stripped of the armour, even after the krayt reared its head. Mos Pelgo was not his problem. Lucky for them, Big Blue wasn’t in charge.

“Seems he can handle it,” Cobb insisted, before thinking better of it.

Blue laughed, the sound rich and rumbling, and Cobb’s neck warmed with a-- well, no he doesn’t blush. Twin suns was all it was. They had both looked back to Mando bringing up the rear of the convoy: still smeared in the krayt’s green bile, he was finally showing fatigue, shoulders hunched, head bowed but patiently listening to each of Jo’s enquiries about the Tuskens. Mos Pelgo would need as much intel as possible to avoid a cultural blunder and preserve this peace; the town’s future would very well depend on it. The Mandalorians did more than take out a krayt dragon that day. And still, Mando was finding more ways to help.

Okay, maybe Blue had a point.

“We have a tradition after each mission,” Blue continued, and the sun glinted sharp and wicked off the brow of his visor with the glance Cobb’s way. “Would you like to help?”

As far as propositions went, one of the better Cobb’s ever had.

Now, he is standing before two flesh and blood Mandalorians and marvelling how their armour gleams burnt pink-gold-bronze under twilight. They’re incredible to behold in action but even at rest, relaxed and murmuring to each other, Cobb finds himself awed all over again, just a little short of breath. They’re myth humanised and everything the stories claimed. His heart drums harder standing so close.

To say Cobb is honoured would not be a lie. To admit he’s intimidated wouldn’t do him any favours. He has to be careful.

“Any customs I should know about?” he asks. Under their combined stare, Cobb takes his time to collect himself and settle the little voice warning he is in way over his head. If he offends these people, well. He intends not to offend them.

“Everything stays on,” Mando tells him.

Cobb blinks, raising an eyebrow. “Everything?”

Not that he’s opposed, but he’d tried that very fantasy himself: sweating beneath a full suit of armour, ‘neath the constraints of a helmet _on a desert planet_ wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Mandalorian steel was light but, it… well, it was steel. Cobb required a bit more bend, a bit more give and take for these activities. These two wore _layers_ beneath it. He had guessed their suits harboured some sort of environmental controls to keep them from overheating under Tatooine’s twins, but his did not. 

They really wanted to keep everything on?

Mando cocks his head and crooks the fingers by his thigh. “Come here.”

That quiet, modulated order hooks low in Cobb’s belly and tugs him forward until the workbench bumps his hip and he’s gazing up into Mando’s dark visor. He frowns at the faint green sheen lining the grooves of that helmet.

“You know krayt bile’s acidic, right?”

Mando glances down at himself. “I got most of it.”

Cobb follows his gaze, critical of the dried patches staining his undersuit and armour. “I like you, friend, but I’m not getting my cock burned off for your Creed.”

Blue interjects, unfolding a dark cloth from god knows where. “Then don’t touch.” 

Cobb watches with a raised eyebrow as Blue knocks Mando’s knees apart and runs that cloth up first one armoured thigh, then the other. Mando’s fingers grip the bench beneath him and his breath catches when the cloth closes over the apex of spread thighs. Blue’s hand is so large it covers his crotch entirely. Cobbs watches that cloth drag up the seam of those dark pants, earning a sharp look from their owner when Blue’s fingers curl at the top of his pelvis, light, teasing small circles, then flattening to knead the flat of his palm in long, heavy passes.

Mando’s chest jumps with a short gasp, swaying gently on the bench, and Cobb’s mouth waters watching the two Mandalorians gaze into each other, Blue palming him shamelessly between his legs and Mando’s breaths growing deep and heavy. It’s enthralling.

They’ve probably cleared any lingering trace of the krayt down there by now.

Cobb is wondering if they’re using some private channel to communicate when Mando turns, catching him in his sights. Cobb swallows thickly.

“Open your pants,” Mando says.

Cobb almost fumbles in his rush to comply. The lulling rhythm of Mando’s heavy breaths build anticipation and he’s just got the buttons of his pants open when a gloved hand with silver vambraces reaches past him, gentling his own hands out of the way -- are those gloves clean? Acid bile, hello? -- the concern blips out of mind and he blinks heavily, hips bucking as smooth leather fingertips close around him, pulling his cock from his briefs.

“Hhhhh-- sweet m-- mmh--” Cobb groans and leans a hand on the bench by Mando’s thigh to steady himself. That glove is smoother than anticipated but the palm has a rougher texture, one intended to grip. The contrast makes Cobb sigh with a shiver as those fingers wrap around him, as Mando tugs him in and strokes him from root to tip, slow and assessing, then again a little firmer; by the third stroke, he’s gripped Mando’s thigh for purchase and when Mando gets him into a rhythm, it’s all Cobb can do to hang his head and moan in gratitude.

But wait, this isn’t meant to be about him.

“H-how do you want me?” he manages, throat dry.

“Hmm?” Mando hums low in his chest. He sounds like he’s drifting and pleased, and Cobb realises Blue’s hand is still moving between his legs. It could be the clothing, but Cobb doesn’t see the bulge he would normally expect.

He glances from the big, blue Mandalorian at his side to Mando sighing out his pleasure on the workbench above them.

“You wanna fuck me, darlin’?” he asks.

The look Mando gives him feels surprised. “You-- you want _me_ to--”

The reaction all but confirms Cobb’s suspicions about these two. It’s why he made the offer. He doesn’t think Mando gets the chance all that often.

“If _you_ want to,” he offers.

Blue snorts a laugh beside him and mutters something in that sweet language beneath his breath, tucked at the corner of his mouth like a private joke. Before Cobb can react, the hand on his cock disappears. Mando snaps around to his friend, his arm strikes out and Blue reels back, coughing and reaching for his windpipe.

“Whoa--” Cobb blinks. What just happened?

He watches Mando reel Blue back in with fingers under the chin of his helmet, the other curls around his throat, and he’s snarling in that same unfamiliar tongue, knives and heat and admonition. Cobb takes a step back from the tremble of the workbench under the big guy’s weight. Mando pulls, they bump helm-to-helm but it doesn’t look like intimacy and the tone of those words couldn’t be anything but a warning.

Hell, this took a turn.

Cobb raises his hands in placation. “Whatever he said, I’m not offended.”

Mando releases his friend with a little shove. Blue has the decency to look sheepish, helmet ducked low, glancing away.

“It wasn’t about you,” Mando says, voice hard. Blue murmurs something that could be an apology, but Mando ignores him. All the softness is gone from his posture and that’s a shame. Cobb withers a little under his heavy stare. “So you want me to fuck you?”

The temperament in the air has completely changed, but his traitorous cock still twitches at the growl in that voice.

“I mean, if _you--”_

Mando stares at him for a long moment. He turns to Blue. “Give him to me.”

Cobb blinks at him, not quite understanding. Big Blue steps over to him, hands grip beneath Cobb’s thighs and he’s being heaved up with humiliating ease-- _wow, Blue is strong--_ lifted, parted and settled to kneel astride Mando’s lap on the bench. It’s the work of two startled breaths and suddenly he’s blinking _down_ at that black visor in bemusement.

“Oh-- hey there,” he can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out. Nervous? Him? Realising how easily he can be manhandled between these two? No! Realising how much trouble he’s in if he wants them to st-- no, they would stop if he asked them to. Right?

Mando’s hands settle on his hips. “You okay?” His voice has dropped to something gentler and the effect is immediate, soothing Cobb from his ramrod posture, the tension seeping away under that touch.

“Yea--” He yelps, almost tipping back in the gap between those parted thighs. His shoulders hit armour and he feels the span of Blue’s hands brace low on his back.

“Don’t worry,” Mando says, smooth leather fingertips sliding under Cobb’s open waistline. “We’ve got you.”

Cobb shivers at the second touch on his lower back that hooks thumbs in his pants. 

“These have to go,” Blue says, voice a little rough presumably from the jab he took.

Cobb is already rising to help shimmy them off. “Yeah, okay, let--”

Blue’s hands lift him under his armpits and Mando tugs both pants and briefs down past his knees in the same motion. The cool air of the hangar hits his skin, tickling between his bare thighs and over his balls, drawing them up against his body. Cobb swallows more moisture down his throat at the Mandalorians' display of synergy. They’re a well-oiled machine and Cobb is confronted with the tingly knowledge that Blue knows exactly how to act on Mando’s intentions, two for two in less than a minute. 

His earlier interest simmers back to attention low in his belly. He’s still semi-hard and he closes a hand around himself, self-conscious of being the only one who’s bared; he feels like a soft side of steak between two waiting knives, but he’s going to go for it.

An armoured chest moulds against his back and blue gauntlets plant either side of Mando’s thighs.

“You want mine?” Blue asks as Mando tugs his gloves off.

Mando nods, wordless, and then a small steel vial is being pressed into his palm. _Lube,_ Cobb realises as it clicks open with a twist and drools clear onto Mando’s palm, smooth and viscous. Thin scars criss-cross the back of his knuckles. A small tattoo of something that could be a star dots the thin skin above the joint of his thumb. Cobb wonders if it means something special.

The bottle is set aside. That free hand holds Cobb’s jaw, thumb swiping across his cheekbone. “Don’t worry,” Mando says, reaching between Cobb’s legs. “I’m gentle.”

 _That’s a shame,_ Cobb muses, quite unintentionally and of a surprise to himself.

He expects it to be cold but all he feels is Mando’s slick touch, ticklish in its pressure, two fingers that slide from the skin behind his balls up either side of his taint. They stroke back and forth, circling, presumably getting him accustomed to the feather-light touch and Cobb shivers, adjusting the weight on his knees. He takes a risk, settling a hand on Mando’s shoulder for balance. The man doesn’t seem to mind.

Blue’s chin tucks against his shoulder and Cobb swallows noisily as the other Mandalorian peers down between their bodies at the sight of Cobb lazily stroking himself, of Mando’s wrist flexing between his legs. 

Cobb groans as the pressure between his legs becomes insistent with every circling pass. His inner muscles clench with anticipation.

Blue murmurs a question in that other language and Mando cocks his head, answering in turn, visor tilted down to watch his hand flex and move. Cobb’s whole body flushes under the intensity of their mutual stare.

“P-problem?” He asks, face hot.

“No problem,” Mando says and pushes inside.

Cobb startles and his knees almost buckle on the slick touch that prises him open. Luckily, Blue is pressed so close at his back there’s nowhere to fall. Mando sinks all the way to the second knuckle on the first pass and he goes in with both fingers, gentle yet determined. Cobb pants hard and feels sweat bead his hairline as Mando stills, letting his fingers curl ever slightly, testing the strength and give of Cobb’s inner walls.

_Oh, darlin’, that’s-- even just-- fuck, he’s strong--_

Cobb bites his tongue and _tries_ to relax, but it’s a little hard when he has to kneel at the same time, when he’s unsure what they’ll do if he makes a noise.

Mando says something under his breath and his fingers disappear from Cobb’s body in a gasping rush. Blue reaches for the discarded silver vial and before Cobb can really register what they’re doing, Mando is pushing back into him, fingers slicked anew, and then Cobb groans, head hanging, gaze heavy, as Mando begins pumping into him.

_Wow, oh wow, that’s-- wow--_

Maybe he misread the situation between them. He hasn’t given Mando enough credit. The man’s touch is confident and his technique is… experienced.

“Darlin’, that is-- _nnh-- whoa,_ good--” he pants, jaw dropping, the stretch and fill pushing the breath from his lungs with every slow and heavy thrust.

Blue shifts at his back, there’s a gentle _skiff_ of something hitting the workbench and a new pair of bare, warm palms grope Cobb’s thighs, dragging from knee to hip. Cobb moans at the possessive touch, the sound hitching as Mando’s fingers drive into him on a harder thrust, curling and holding deep.

Cobb jolts with a strangled curse, white hot pleasure blurring through him.

“Skinny,” Blue murmurs consideringly in his ear.

 _“S-- what?”_ It’s an effort to get his eyes open, but he manages a weak frown for the big guy all but nuzzling him. Nobody has called him skinny since he was competing with speeders for height, but compared to the hulk at his back, even a Gamorrean could look malnourished.

“Skinny,” Blue affirms, palming Cobb’s thighs for emphasis. Cobb looks down at himself, taking a moment to note the unexpected mottling of dark, scale-like patterns on Blue’s olive skin, the claws filed blunt presumably for his gloves. Huh. Why had he expected Blue to be human? Something to reflect about himself later.

Those large hands are splayed wide over the meatiest part of Cobb’s thigh at the hip joint and, okay, Blue’s span covers it easily _phew_.

 _“Skinny?”_ Cobb grunts, “Y-you’re ju-- _nnh_ \-- _haa,_ b-big--”

“I’ve been told,” Blue says, voice low and smug.

Mando mutters something in that other tongue and Blue quips, a bright smile in his voice.

Cobb swallows with difficulty. Mando’s pace is deep and strong. It’s getting harder for Cobb to lock his knees beneath him. “You know, y-- you could speak Basic. It’s kind of rude, w-when-- _nngh,_ ‘m ruh-- _hah!_ ‘M right here….”

“You do not want to hear his complaining,” Blue assures, hands curling up under Cobb’s shoulders, tilting him back into an arch against his armoured front. _Oh_ , that’s an interesting angle-- yeah, that feels--

Mando catches his hip, bracing. “I don’t complain,” he says. “Hold him open for me.”

Fuck. Cobb can barely catch his breath, stomach swooping as those big hands fall from armpits to the bottom of his thighs and Blue effortlessly scoops him up against his chest. Cobb’s heart drums as he’s spread and pulled open wide, baring him for the casual gaze of these two Mandalorians.

He pants sharply and instinctively grips Blue’s forearm for stability.

Before him, Mando cocks his helmet. Cobb feels the weight of eyes drag down his front and his cock throbs, weeping. Blue’s fingers dig a little deeper into the meat under his knees.

“Mmm,” Mando purrs under his breath, a sound caught between a growl and a rasp. His fingers crook with a languid squelch of interest, buried to the knuckle. “So that’s what it looks like.”

Those fingers begin driving into him harder and faster. Cobb bucks, curling on himself, thighs twitching in that iron hold, and he tries stroking himself to match that pace. They’re milking a sputtering stream of praise and curses from him-- he hopes it’s more the former because he wants to let these fellas know he’s appreciative of their attention. Can’t remember the last time he went out on a limb and had that limb spread him wide and secure and fucked him so capably. 

His head thunks back on an armoured pauldron. High, weak noises are fucked out of him with every wet slap of Mando’s palm, every blunt curl against that cluster of nerves licking frissons of heat through his muscles.

“Is that good?” Blue rumbles in his ear, the rough modulation making Cobb bite his tongue.

“Yeah,” he gasps.

“Is he what you imagined?”

Cobb shivers hard with a guilty rush of _godyesbetter_ and he clenches down, teeth gritted, _“Fuck--”_

“He always whines for it faster,” Blue says.

“Hey,” Mando interrupts with the barest hint of indignation like his protest is token. Maybe he’s embarrassed. He shouldn’t be. Not if this is the result.

Blue ignores his friend, tone amused. “You want it faster?”

Cobb blinks up at the Tatooine sky darkening purple with the slow descent of the twins below the horizon. His body pulls taut with a whine-- almost, almost-- his hand on his cock has slowed to tight pulls beneath the head, too overcome by the pace hammering into his ass to do more than hold still and _feel,_ toes curling in his boots. Another hot blurt of pre-cum spills over his fingers.

Thinking is hard. What did Blue say?

Blue lifts and jolts him in a controlled drop. Cobb shouts as it spears him hard on Mando’s upward thrust.

He wants to ask for Mando’s cock. He wants to feel the hot throb of him as Blue holds him open to take it deep and hard, over and _over,_ but he’s so close he can’t conceive anything but _more._

“Faster?” Blue asks.

“Please,” Cobb mewls. “I’d-- yeah-- please--”

Blue laughs quietly, armour shaking gently under Cobb’s back. He wishes he could feel the warmth of his chest and the pillow of those muscles. “Famous rural manners.”

“I know you like manners,” Mando says, like it’s a sly joke between them.

Cobb’s breath catches at fingers curling around the column of his throat. He raises his head from Blue’s shoulder and stares down the armoured length of Mando’s powerful arm, pinning him flat.

“I do,” Blue murmurs, “Show him what I taught you, mesh’la.”

Mesh’la. Is that Mando’s name?

Mando scoffs under his breath. “You didn’t teach me everything.”

There’s a hum of interest from Blue at Cobb’s ear, maybe a hint of something jealous because that sound drops to subsonic rumbling at Cobb’s back, distinctly _inhuman_ and exciting _\--_ but then the fingers in Cobb’s ass flex and spread, consuming his whole attention, and he’s just begun wondering how he’s so slick down there when a third sears into him. His chest burns with the force of the moan that tears from his throat.

The fingers at his throat tighten. And then the ones forcing him open begin pounding in.

Cobb shouts, he wails. He's man enough to admit it-- to himself and anyone not within earshot to testify what sounds a Marshall can make wedged between two Mandalorians like a plaything. The image of the two of them pressing inside together fills his mind and he arches so hard in Blue's hold it's almost painful. They'd be big and relentless, forcing him to take every inch, pulling him down to the hilt, twisting and writhing, and he'd love it, every fucking second of it.

The fantasy coupled with the punishing thrusts make his eyes roll up, pull every muscle in his body tight, bracing against the overwhelming waves of rapture crashing through him.

“That's it,” Blue croons in his ear as Cobb bucks and rocks in his hold, chest heaving, “Show him you like it. We’ll send you back to your people bow-legged and every time you bounce sore on that speeder, you’re going to think of this, spread and sloppy for us….”

The words are a punch to the gut, right through his core where Mando is bullying him apart with the blinding, wet drill of those fingers. His cock pulls up tight against his belly, throbbing.

The grip on his throat disappears and fingers play at his lips. Cobb’s jaw lolls, those fingers slide in past his teeth, calloused and sweet over his tongue, and when he blinks the tears from his vision, he finds Mando’s black visor close enough to fog the glass with the rush of his exhale.

His heart skips a beat.

“On me,” Mando orders.

Cobb’s eyes shut with the force of his shudder, groin tightening with a vicious _pull_ and he obeys.

“There it is,” Blue praises. It’s a miracle Cobb hears him over the desperate volume of his own cries as Mando pounds him through his release, following every bucking quiver of his hips, fingers strong even after the relentless pace, welcoming every long pulse of white from Cobb's cock over his utility belt, gambeson, and the flawless silver of that armour.

The sight of his cum marking up this warrior makes Cobb drool. Maybe he was already drooling. It’s hard to tell with those fingers holding his jaw open so he can’t stifle his cries.

The fingers in his ass slow with the rhythmic clench of his muscles. His breaths deepen, relieved. A thumb swipes across his lower lip. His chin is tilted up and he sags back against the safehold of Blue’s chest as the last of the aftershocks tremble and ease.

“Hmm. Nice.” Mando’s helmet tilts and Cobb warms at the rough heat in his voice. Just the idea he’s affected the other man is enough for his cock to give its last weak pulse.

Hot. These two. So hot.

“You sh--” His speech slurs and he slaps a hand on Blue’s gauntlet. His limbs aren’t faring much better. “You two should come again.”

Mando glances over Cobb’s shoulder, the air questioning. Blue does something at his back, Cobb can’t tell what because his attention narrows to the hollowing feeling of those fingers leaving his body and the hot/cold ache left behind.

Blue’s hands knead the flesh of his thighs and he’s finally lowered back to the workbench. His knees almost give out beneath him. Willpower alone keeps him upright, but it’s a close one. Mando is trailing reddened fingers through the streaks of cum on his armour and the sight makes Cobb’s mouth water all over again. Thin trails of white are already soaking Mando's cuff. Cobb's cheeks burn. Was that all from him?

A flat palm smacks the bare cheek of Cobb's ass and he startles with a sharp, high yelp. He glances back to find his glorified armrest projecting an air of smugness.

"Say 'thank you'," Blue rumbles, voice teasing.

"Th-- thank you," Cobb says, face warming anew.

"Thank you, Mando," he's corrected as Blue tugs Cobb’s pants back up to his hips. Cobb fumbles, nearly losing his balance to help.

Face now burning, he glances to their company. "Thank you, Mando.”

Mando looks up from examining his hands and armour, thoughtful. His movements have slowed, almost sluggish. When he realises what Cobb has said, he stiffens and shakes his head, that stern confidence evaporates. Cobb's heart does a funny flip. If he didn’t know any better he’d think the man was being bashful. He can order Cobb presented to him like an ornate platter, but can’t accept simple gratitude?

Who are these two? Sparing a final glance for Blue at his side, Cobb is left with more questions than answers. There's so much more he wants to ask them. For another time, if he's lucky enough. He hopes they'll take him up on his offer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cobb: I want you to fuck me.  
> Din: *not packing that day* Hmm.  
> Paz: Lol.  
> Din: *fucks up Paz's windpipe*  
> Din: *fucks Cobb's ass*  
> Din "I don't need a strap to destroy you" Djarin: I started this day tired and I don't want to use my wrist for a week, but I had a good time.
> 
> Meanwhile, somewhere in a cantina nearby, a Frog Lady patiently twiddles her thumbs waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz takes the chin of that flawless steel between thumb and forefinger, tilting Din up to him. “Close your eyes. Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we arrive at the true end of this with our final change in perspective. I didn't know if this chapter would be written so apologies for the evolving chapter count. I decided to follow through because this will have bearing on the next instalment in the series. I love polycules.

In one moment, Paz is indomitable with pride as Din flies from the dragon's jaws in a storm of blue electricity; in the next, he is hollowed witnessing the long look exchanged between the beroya and the Marshal when the latter hands over his armour. Cobb’s smile is warm and crooked, and Din lingers in his grasp.

The throb of hurt that clenches Paz’s chest is unjustified. His eyes burn. He steels his jaw and scowls against it.

He has already failed the _rest_ of their people, he will not fail the last of them when Din needs him. When Din needs _more_ than him.

The next thought strikes him like a cold splash of water: maybe this is the opening Paz has been waiting for (avoiding, if he's honest with himself). Some proof that if-- that _when_ he leaves, the other man will be taken care of. He has delayed for far too long.

Somewhere out there, Alor and the others are waiting for him. Din has his own mission.

Paz looks again at the silver-haired Marshal and feels his stomach turn even as he resolves: a test is in order.

///

It’s not terrible.

The Marshal is handsome in a soft… pretty way. At first Paz had assessed him as wry and lazy in his manners, but their time working together had proven it was an abundance of caution. The people of Mos Pelgo are survivors.

Apparently, they had determined compassion plays a part in that survival strategy, too. 

Cobb Vanth speaks firmly but with kindness. He’s kinder than his new guests, without question. But he has integrity, he is straightforward and he makes decisions for his people’s best interests. Paz respects those qualities. Even if Cobb lacks the raw fighting prowess worth the highest regard.

Cobb is also _very_ sweet on Din. It’s so obvious Paz is almost embarrassed for him. He feels a swell of arrogance at how quickly Din gets the man weak in the knees, how Din trusts Paz to help him take the Marshall apart. Paz does it with relish.

With Cobb groaning pleasure in his audial, it almost makes Paz wonder: Is this ultimately what Din wants? Someone kind and uncomplicated to sink into at the end of the day?

Cobb makes Din purr and Paz basks in the chance to watch Din work, to feel the shivers that can be aroused by the gravel of the beroya’s voice pitched low. It’s good to know Paz isn’t the only one vulnerable to Din's command. It’s too bad Din ignores his suggestion of pulling that silver hair. Paz wanted to learn what other sounds Cobb would make while the object of his affection was knuckle deep in his body.

Once they’re done, Cobb pulls himself together with as much dignity as one can muster, milked from the inside out, still leaking into pants, standing like his knees could buckle in a moment and he’s not going to pretend otherwise. That lack of ego makes Paz smile. He wants to breathe on the man just to see if it would tip him over. Paz can confidently say he enjoyed himself, too. It’s not how he planned to help Din unwind, but Din seems… satisfied.

“Well, I-- hope that helped with--” Cobb gestures vaguely and rubs the back of his neck. “Your custom.” He leans a steadying hand on the workbench. “Will you be coming along to the cantina?”

The Marshal’s crew had collectively agreed to meet at the local watering hole after securing their required resources from the town. Peli Motto, Din’s engineer, had promised to wait there with the child. They would be gathering shortly. After carrying the little one in the pouch on his front for days, Paz is feeling his absence.

Din had trusted the child to him upon their touchdown on Tatooine, refusing the little one’s whines when he realised he would not be carried with Din. The beroya is like a father to this tiny, green being and Paz had not been the child’s favourite person since he started sharing Din’s cot-- relegating the child to his sleeping pod. There were just some things a child should never see.

But that sweet, bottomless pit of hunger is the reason Paz now travels with Din at all. If anything happens to the child, the covert’s sacrifice will have been in vain. Paz will not allow that.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Din says.

Paz looks at him sharply. He doesn’t want to follow immediately? Neither of them enjoy leaving the child with others. Din trusted the big-haired mechanic, but he has too much faith in people. Paz does not.

Din sags, shoulders dropping, hands loose. The fatigue is barely noticeable but Paz has been at his side for months and made the man’s wellbeing his waking priority. Well, that and the child. This experiment with the Marshal has taken its toll. Paz feels a sting of guilt. 

Cobb nods, his smile understanding. “All right, fellas. I’ll save you a drink.”

He leaves with a small salute and a crooked swagger in his step. Yes, if Din had to seek comfort with anyone else… Paz would not hate this one.

///

Paz feels correct in his assumption behind Din's desire to linger behind. The beroya doesn't even look back to check Paz is following as he staggers up the ramp to his ship. Once aboard, he slumps against the wall, hands tangling in the cargo netting with a sigh. Paz brings the ramp up behind them, eyes on the slouch of Din’s shoulders as the door clanks and seals with a hiss.

Din barely reacts to the hand Paz settles low on his back.

"Let me," Paz says.

The other man drags his feet but follows obediently to the small basin, head heavy. With a light tug, Din sways into Paz’s side with a clink of armour. The faucet sputters forth a thin, cold stream, Paz weaves Din's fingers with his and, slowly, their hands fill with a soapy lather.

For a while, there is only the stir and drip of water as Paz turns Din’s hands over in his, intent on erasing any trace of the good Marshal from his skin. Din’s palm fits easily in the span of his own, olive skin scarred and calloused against the darker gradient of Paz where his knuckles harden like scales. Paz likes the way Din fits against him, the contrast of their textures and size. He is lucky Din seems to like it, too.

Din leans against him, subtly at first, hip-to-hip as Paz manipulates him, skin gliding against skin, a slick, soothing massage kneaded by firm circles in the soft pillow of Din’s palm to the corded backs of his hands, climbing from wrist to knuckle to fingertip. Din groans with the click and release of the bones in his wrist and his helm thunks gently to Paz’s collar. 

Paz has only seen him non-verbal in this manner a handful of times, exhausted beyond the use of words. Din may have been commanding splayed on that workbench, but it was Paz who set him there before a stranger. _You did so well,_ Paz wants to tell him, but he can’t ignore the evidence before him of both the physical and emotional cost.

"It was a lot, wasn't it?" Paz murmurs, that sting of guilt driving deeper. 

Din’s hands curl gently upon themselves and he sags heavier against the infantry’s side. He seems only moments from falling asleep. Something nags at the back of Paz’s awareness, an inconvenient thorn that prevents him from indulging in this rare moment of trust and care. Paz sighs.

“I should not have said what I did,” he says, quietly.

Beneath his chin, Din’s helmet tilts up in question.

“I am sorry.” Paz avoids his gaze, giving focused attention to the calluses under his care. “For taunting when he asked for your cock.”

He feels Din tense and hears his breath catch. Din pulls away, gaze falling to the basin, and Paz misses the comfort of his weight immediately. Graciously, he allows Paz to keep attending him. When he finds his voice, it sounds worn, “How’s your throat?”

Paz swallows reflexively. The click of tendons rub together, something bruised and maybe misaligned from where Din struck him. He deserved it. It was not the first time his mouth ran ahead of his brain, and it would not be the last. Especially where Din Djarin is concerned. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s too bad.”

Paz snorts a soft laugh under his breath. He chooses his next words carefully. "I thought-- you might be accustomed to company. Other company. And I thought--" Their fingers interwoven, he worries one of Din’s knuckles, gently, muttering, "Perhaps you miss that."

 _"You're an old hand at this, aren't you?"_ The old taunt bubbles from the well of memory and he can feel Din staring at him.

"You thought..." Din's voice is quiet with suspicion and Paz’s braces himself, pinned under the scrutiny. "I was bored of you?"

It feels like Din just struck him in the chest.

 _"Bored?”_ Paz startles, turning on him sharply. “No, this is-- _you--"_

"What _about_ me?" Din says, tersely, holding his ground.

Maybe on another day, Din could have laughed it off with something wry but they're both still so new to this -- travelling side-by-side as more than fellow soldiers has been one of the most difficult challenges Paz has ever faced. He prepared his whole life for war, but moving with the tribe had always provided someone else to deflect to the mundane questions: what will they eat next? Who will prepare it? Why doesn’t Din play more with his child? Should they configure a larger bed? Whose turn is it to clean the ship?

Paz can handle outright arguments but he never knew how infuriating it could be weathering Din’s hostile silence in judgment over his style of flying, or the fact Paz likes to rise early to attend his armour instead of staying up late like his bed partner.

(No, they’re more, it’s _more_ than bed partners.)

The tedium of everyday co-existence is confronting. But this _thing_ between them is still unnamed. It is young and more fragile than even Paz wants to admit. It has grown easier to earn Din in the circle of his arms, but it’s still rarer than Paz would like. More and more he has wondered if Din could welcome these tender moments if they weren't book-ended by their rough sessions of stress release. There is peace when Paz holds him after working the tension from every thread of his body. What if they didn't have to wait so long between these encounters?

What if they didn't have to look outside for permission (or the excuse) to indulge in a little more kindness?

Paz has wondered-- and silenced these questions before their birth because he knows he is their true target. Din has little issue with kindness, as he proves every time he accepts an unnecessary mission to help a stranger, and every time he brings the child to bubbling laughter.

Paz doesn't know why he can't let himself be a little kinder.

He towels their hands dry, taking the time to delve into the crease between each digit, soothing every knuckle as he goes.

"I just-- want to know others might have your back," he says. He can feel Din glaring at him, and continues, "If the rest of us are gone."

 _When I leave,_ the words hang unspoken. Din scoffs, glancing away. 

“I travelled alone before you,” he says.

“You did. _Before,”_ Paz says. Before the covert fell, before he stole a child, and they both became Imperial targets. Din was a stalking coil of tension _before_ and he likes to behave as though nothing has changed but Paz has seen the before and the after. And it worries him.

Paz hears him swallow. He feels a tug on his pauldron, Din leans up and their helms clink gently, silver to dark blue.

"Is this all right?" Din's voice is hoarse and if he sounds nervous, Paz is too busy sinking against him to judge. A long, slow exhale releases from his body and he lets his eyes grow heavy. This is more than all right. This is everything he is too scared to ask for. The towel is set aside and his arms wrap around Din's waist in answer.

“I’m not bored of you,” Din murmurs. “Yet.”

Paz snorts a laugh, despite himself. “Put my words out of your mind.”

Din grunts softly and his visor tilts towards the cot they share.

The child is away and taken care of -- on any other day, Paz would press Din down into that pathetic mattress, bury himself in the comfort of his body and relish the opportunity to push Din loud and hard until the Crest was shaking with his rapture. Somehow, today feels different. He doesn’t think that’s what Din needs anymore.

Paz smiles. "Rest. I will retrieve the child."

He expects Din to argue (no he doesn't need to rest, no he's coming with him). Instead, Din's hands find his shoulders. His thigh slides between Paz’s and they are pressed together from hip to chest. Din does not look at him. "Would… can you stay with me? Just a few minutes."

A happy warmth springs in Paz’s chest. “Of course.”

He is the only one who gets to see Din like this, tentative, tired but trusting. Others will earn the honour after him. They are not his concern at this moment. Hand still bare, Paz brings the back of Din's knuckles to the cheek of his helmet. 

"Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Din falls still but does not stiffen. “I--” He glances back to their cot and pats his utility belt. “I don’t have--”

It takes moment to realise what he’s looking for. The blindfolds stored beneath their thin pillows. 

Paz catches his hands. “We don’t need them. Lift your helmet.”

Din stares at him.

Paz takes the chin of that flawless steel between thumb and forefinger, tilting Din up to him. “Close your eyes. Trust me.”

It’s a reminder, not a plea. Din trusts him. Paz knows he does.

He does not reach for the wall panel to turn off the light. The hiss of the first hermetic seal breaking is soon answered by its second. Setting his helmet in the empty basin, Paz seeks Din by hands on the collar of his cuirass, climbing to the thin covering of his neck. His heart jumps at the first exciting brush of skin and a stubbled jaw under his fingertips.

Paz leans in and grunts when he catches the raised chin of Din’s helmet across his brow.

“Sorry,” Din says. So he didn’t want to remove it the entire way? Paz could work with that.

Shaking his head, he traces the edge of the beskar to orient himself on the next approach. He has to angle to the side and coax Din to tilt himself up further with gentle fingers at the base of his nape, but then Paz is rewarded with the soft folds of Din’s mouth opening beneath him and he groans, trembling, and presses closer.

It is meant to be a cursory touch, something routine to ground them, to _remind_ them as they bring this moment to a close… remind them of what? Paz can’t recall once he has the taste of Din back in his mouth. Din’s jaw drops wide with a hum of pleasure, Paz delves inside, and then Din’s back is hitting the wall as Paz crowds him in, tongue stroking against his, longer and thicker than a human’s, but Din only winds his arms around Paz’s neck and pushes up against him.

The sounds of their kisses test Paz’s resolve, wet, thick and heated. He could kiss Din for days. He could let Din suck on his tongue, tease to fuck Din’s throat, have only the barest glide of his mouth and never, never grow bored. He is too greedy for his own good. It is only in these moments that he resents their helmets. Paz takes pride in the beskar faces of their people, true extensions of themselves. But there are many times he has wished to turn Din’s face and kiss his mouth without it becoming a production of its own.

He supposes, that is why these moments are so precious.

His hands roam Din’s cheek, neck, and drop to palm possessively at his firm waist, even as he tries to slow them down. He’s trying.

Din smiles against his mouth. “Thought you were going to let me rest.”

Paz growls in frustration at himself, teeth closing gently on Din’s chin. The man gasps under the light bite. “You will rest,” he insists.

“Uh-huh,” Din sounds like he’s smirking now, _god, Paz wants to see it._

He smothers that blot of arrogance and the sigh Din moans around his tongue makes his blood sing.

“And I’m going to get your baby,” Paz rumbles into him.

A violent shiver goes through Din’s body and strong hands rake through the short waves of his hair. Din’s chest surges against him in their next kiss and his helmet thunks into the basin beside Paz’s. Paz takes a possessive handful apiece of that tempting flank, strong thighs hike and are suddenly wrapping around Paz’s waist. His beroya doesn’t seem so tired anymore, but Paz knows better.

“I want you to rest with me,” Din murmurs against his lips as Paz walks them to the narrow cot.

Paz nips his lower lip. “Rather rest _in_ you.” It’s a dumb reflex, the words that his mouth forms, because he has no intention of resting but he can’t help himself.

Din kisses him in a manner suggesting he _really_ likes the prospect of falling asleep on Paz’s cock, but his hands are pried from their death grip, and he grunts softly in complaint as Paz gentles him to sit on the cot’s edge. Din sighs in defeat, holding onto larger hands when they draw back. His forehead thunks against Paz’s sternum.

What Paz would give to see his face right now.

“I don’t want to do that again,” Din says, quietly. Paz tenses, heart leaping in alarm. Din’s fingers wind clumsily with his. “I don’t want others to help us… while I have you.”

Paz falls utterly still. 

Oh. _Oh._

And then his heart is pounding with a rush of adrenaline and smug joy courses through his veins. He doesn’t need to share, Din can be _his, only_ his, while they are like this, at least. Leaning down, he ushers the lightest kiss to the crown of Din's hair. Paz's nose fills with the fragrance of cold mountain air and wooden spices, and the scent of their shared cleaning solutions brings a wave of peace coursing through him. Eyes pressed tightly shut, Paz crushes a worshipful kiss to the back of Din's hand, cradled between his two.

“So, you agree?” Din asks, sounding nervous.

Paz doesn’t fight the smile that tugs at him. “As you wish.”

///

The dinner crowd is thick and bright with a celebratory mood when Paz strides through the doors of Mos Eisley’s cantina. He is greeted by the mouth-watering scent of roasted meat and sweet ale. It’s easier for him to disappear among the numbers spilling across the floor, but there is no hiding the fact he towers above the majority.

He finds the Mos Pelgo company gathered around one of the tables toward the back. They are the loudest in the establishment, laughing and conversing loudly, with full cups sloshing across the tabletop. Why not? How many could boast they had bested a krayt dragon that day?

Cobb catches him looking and nods, glass raised in salute. Paz nods in return and when he reaches them, Cobb offers a glass of something gold in colour, out of politeness by this point because Paz and Din always refused.

“Thank you,” Paz says, and means it. “I’ve had my nourishment.”

Cobb cocks his head, arms opening to gesture at the feast before them. “Mighty shame. We had the kitchen grill some of the krayt we brought back. Your engineer has her share, too. Droids can accomplish a lot with a few spices.”

The sight and scent of it makes Paz ache for meals shared with the covert and the warmth of his own tribe, but he searches instead for that unruly head of hair. “I’ve come for the child.”

Cobb takes a discreet sip of his drink. “You’re alone?”

Paz doesn’t fight the smile that leaps to his lips, he has no reason to. “I am.” He looks back at the Marshal and finds the other man watching him. “He’s resting.”

Cobb smiles, a soft look in his eyes. “You two ever come this way again. You have friends in Mos Pelgo.”

 _“Read ‘em and weep!”_ a familiar voice crows, and Paz spots the engineer in one of the alcoves, cackling on the other side of the room.

He offers his arm to Cobb. The other man takes it, clasping his hand firmly.

“I’ll remember that,” Paz says. He hesitates, glancing back to the table, “Before I go….”

Sitting across from a tall insectoid, Peli Motto has a sizeable pile of credits on her side of the table when Paz approaches her. She looks up at the motion in her periphery and her mouth purses at the sight of him. 

“Oh. Just you, huh?” Peli asks.

Paz rolls his eyes and bites his tongue against a sharp reply. Din would not appreciate Paz barking at his friends. He knows, everyone is disappointed he didn’t bring their favourite Mandalorian but they will survive.

“I’ve come for the child,” Paz says, and eyes the being in question on her lap.

“Muh?” The child looks up from Peli’s cards, chin at height with the table. His eyes grow huge with a soft gasp when he sees the long stick of grilled meat Paz holds aloft. Of all the people who could have been disappointed by Din's absence, this is the only one Paz cares about. With his free hand, Paz reaches down to thumb his wrinkled brow, and that tiny face scrunches up adorably.

“Come, ad’ika, you can be tall today,” Paz says, and makes his peace offering.

The child trills in wonder, wobbling unsteadily when Paz deposits him on his pauldron. The _ting_ of claws scrape and tap against his helmet as the child searches for a handhold, surveying his new domain from on high.

Peli hums thoughtfully as she lays another card on the table. “Mando usually carries him in a pack.”

“I’m not Mando,” Paz says, and hands the child the stick of meat almost as large as he is.

The kid squeals in delight.

“Hold onto that,” Paz warns.

“So, I understand you’re still seeking more of your kind,” Peli says, without looking up from the cards in her hand.

“Our search continues,” Paz concedes. It is frustrating. Any knowledge he might have offered on other clans or coverts would be decades out of date, and useless. “This is the only lead we had.”

“I can help you there.”

Paz looks at her in surprise.

Finally, Peli looks up at him, eyes shrewd. “Yeah. But it’ll cost you.”

Paz’s mental stocktake of the credits on his person is the work of a thought because there is so little to count. Din was their walking coin purse.

A startled yelp in his audial grabs his attention and then Paz is craning to look at the child who is whimpering in rising distress, his hands empty, eyes pooling with tears. A quick glance around then down reveals the cherished meat stick dropped by Paz’s boot.

Sighing, he crouches down to retrieve it.

“This is why I told you to hold on tight,” he says, straightening. He raises his gauntlet, taking aim.

Peli’s eyes leap wide. “Not inside--!”

Pale fire spews from the flamethrower on his wrist, scorching all dirt and concern from the meat into a new, fresh layer. It’s the work of a moment, and only when Paz is handing the freshly smoking morsel back to the sniffling child, does he realise all eyes in the cantina have turned on him. He steadies the small one by his ear and waits for those tiny claws to close their grip, before letting go.

He spreads his arms at the bemused silence. “Yes?”

Peli shakes her head, tutting. “Mandalorians.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din, wandering up to the cockpit hours later to find them traveling at sub-light speed and an unfamiliar, kind Frog Lady in the spare seat: "Who the hell is this?"
> 
> Anyway, hands up if you also grew up on The Princess Bride.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter about [gen and meta](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds) or [ships and thirst](https://twitter.com/bellsyafterdark).
> 
>  **Permissions:** You do not need to ask for permission to make translations, podfics, fanfic or fanart for any of my stories-- I do ask that you link back to my original work and let me know because I would LOVE to share what you've created.


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